In which I bitch about aging, and the road not taken, and blah blah blah.

They say that “40 is the new 30” (which probably is more a nod to the efficacy of modern medicine than anything else) but 40, IMO, is nothing at all like 30.

For me, being 40 means that while my mental outlook is damn near bulletproof – I know what I like and I no longer worry about what people think, and have learned much about what I require from my lifestyle in order to be mentally, spiritually, and emotionally comfortable – my physical experiences are getting pretty weird, to say the least.

I can no longer deny myself proper nutrition and rest and still function at all. I am watching my hair slowly but surely migrate from my head to the rest of my body. My cycle is no longer textbook perfect; my luteal phase seems to be getting weirder as I slowly pull away from my reproductive years.

I can no longer eat all the Mexican food I want; it now turns immediately into pudge. I get random aches and pains in places I didn’t even know I had. There are the mornings my feet feel like sausages, and the evenings I feel totally wiped out even though I haven’t done anything particularly energetic.

There are the new wrinkles in my forehead and around my eyes, and there is the increasing size of the veins in backs of my hands [this grosses me out inordinately]. There is the fact that everything jiggly is about two inches lower than my body-image tells me it should be.

My vision continues to deteriorate, and I’m getting those black floaty things in my field of sight (future vitreous or retinal detachment, anyone?). I have developed a few spider and varicose veins in the past couple of years. My (remaining) hair has more silver in it than ever.

I am hyper-aware of mortality, particularly my own, whereas even three years ago the thought that I’d get old and die literally never crossed my mind. (That could be a side effect of living with an 86-year-old grandmother, and dating a man who lives with his 83-year-old mother, more than an artifact of my own age.)

Over-indulging, in anything at all, costs me much more recuperative time than it once did; the sad thing is that this goes for nookie as well as food and vodka. (Nothing says “you’re getting old” like requiring three days to recover from a particularly good fuck because you threw your back out. Can I get a witness?)

Also somewhat disturbing is the realization that I have already achieved who I’m going to be: I do not harbor any hidden easter egg hacks; I’m not going to suddenly get smarter or prettier or more talented. (Or more driven, for that matter.) Statistical odds say that I’m not going to make it in entertainment, I’m not going to get that PhD, I’m not going to become a brilliant writer of fiction, and I’m not going to guest star on the Today Show for having accomplished any of those things… simply because I haven’t already done so and I’ve reached the age I have.

Not to say I don’t have anything left to do in my life, but one can safely extrapolate from past trends. I’m good, but I’m not that good… and even if I were, I seem to be a little lazy. I’ll dabble in entertainment like I always have, and I’ll (probably) retain my native intelligence, and I’ll keep writing in the small ways that I do (it’s not like keeping a damn-near daily blog for 8 years is a non-accomplishment, and you should totally read my riveting technical manuals), but I will always be a small fish.

So, that’s kind of a weird realization. There was once a subtle but ever-present feeling of possibility, that literally any life path could open up before me at any moment. That feeling is, if not gone, at least vastly reduced for me now that I’ve turned 40. I don’t expect myself to bust out with anything more remarkable than I already have done.

All the entertainers I see are younger than me. And if they’re not, they started on the road to household-name-ness when they were significantly younger than I am now. I spent my ‘making it’ years in Iowa rather than in a big city working, and while I don’t regret that I do realize that that decision cut a lot of branches off my potentiality tree.

In other words, this is it.

This is me.

WYSIWYG.

And that’s okay. (But it’d be better if my body was still, like, 20. Srsly.)

In which I shamelessly dork out on y’all.

The new-boyfriend vocabulary is growing; I’m gonna need a jargon file just so I can read it occasionally and smirk. None of it means nothing to anyone else, of course, but phrases like “Fuck you, get the fuck off me” and “You gotta understand; I live in the same yellow” and “At least the puking part’s over” all crack me up.

The weekend’s been superfun. Saturday night after work we went to Kelly’s and had dinner and drinks and I met his caddy. Later we met up with Becca and got hammered down at Barn Disease, partyin’ with the twenty-year-olds and diggin’ on their drama. (I got to see Arturrrrrro; I love that creature!) I had much more vodka than anyone needs and passed out in K’s bed around two.

The next morning he made me tea and toast; eventually we went to Walmart (where there were idiot coneheads standing in every damn aisle like cattle in chutes) for general necessities (I got lens solution and laundry detergent; he bought plumbing shit for his upstairs bathroom), and then I spent the afternoon finding my bedroom floor while he went home and mowed his lawn in ninety seven-degree heat. Around five he came over and chatted up my G’ma while I showered, and then we went back to his place where he cooked me dinner. And made me drinks. And ravished me senseless for hours. Christ.

This morning, though? The wretched bitch woke me up early so he could go golfing.

I’ve just washed my whites to wear to Amma the weekend after next and have all my saris and punjabis drying on the line. My room is clean and my belly’s full (I made an egg, hashed browns and veggie sausage, and then slathered it all in vegetarian gravy – oh yes) and now I’m seriously considering a big, fat nap (if I don’t have to go to band practice, that is).

In which it’s totally off the hook and I’ve been walking around grinning like a lobotomy recipient.

I haven’t posted for five days ’cause I’ve been busy. *waggles eyebrows* Yes: busy. In the Biblical sense of the word, if you catch my drift.

There has been sleep deprivation, giggling, endless (good) conversation, strange continuities (owner’s manuals and stair-counting), driving around aimlessly, endless location jokes, belly cramps from laughing, a few bars, a couple restaurants, wine, vodka, and couches, floors, and beds. And while there won’t be more details on that front (because don’t EVEN get me started, I’ll never shut up) I will say this: OMFG teh yum.

I really need a chiropractor, though. Damn.

In which I use Google as a spell-checker.

There are several words I have never bothered to learn to spell. When I want to use them, I type them into Google and then when it says, “Did you mean: amenable?” I copy the correct spelling and paste it into my email/blog post/trouble ticket.